


Falling Down

by sadlygrove



Series: Falling Up [2]
Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-02-04
Updated: 2009-02-04
Packaged: 2017-10-18 09:16:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/187329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sadlygrove/pseuds/sadlygrove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Church of the Savior on Spilled Blood was built on the spot where Emperor Alexander II was assassinated in March 1881. Squalo finds Yamamoto there, adding to the puddles of blood.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Falling Down

  


It wasn't often that Sawada asked Xanxus for a favor. But when he did, the Varia head would more often than not comply, for reasons not even Squalo was sure of quite yet. It was... complicated, to put it simply, what was going on between those two. So when Xanxus found his Right outside (playing "Push Tsuna's Ice Sculptures Off The Balcony" with Lussuria and a piss-drunk Ryohei), Squalo didn't question the particular glare in Xanxus' eyes. That glare said clearly that he was sick of Sawada's whining, was all, and it. Needed. To. Stop. _Now_. Squalo had eyed Xanxus' new bottle of 1785 Chateau Lafite--damn did Sawada know how to placate wild beasts--with a wary eye. The koi ice sculpture had shattered down below to Lussuria and Ryohei's drunken delight; it sounded to Squalo like what that Lafite bottle would sound like against his head. You couldn't even drink wine more than fifty years old; what else was Xanxus even going to do with it?

So, hungover, he boarded the jet for Russia, cursing under his rum-soaked breath. It was pretty much the worst plane ride of his life, and he was certain Sawada would be getting a few complaints from the stewardess, copilot, and pilot. Squalo landed in Russia some bajillion hours later. He was tired, irritated, and pissed that this was how he had to spend his New Year's Day. He'd much rather be in bed, curled up in a tight little ball, cursing the sunlight and whomever had invented the open bar concept.

But no. No sir.

A gust of northern wind and snow hit him in the face as he stepped off the plane, heading for the black car. Someone was going to get punched in the face for this, Squalo decided, punched hard.

He informed the driver where to go with a snarl, grabbing whatever drink he could find in the back seat to nurse his temper and throbbing brain. Sawada hadn't told Squalo much the night before; apparently shit had hit the fan earlier that day, explaining why Squalo hadn't seen the brat or the Storm Tart at the party. He could figure out the rest easily enough, even through a bleak hangover. He stared out the window, different scenarios running through his mind. What the fuck was he supposed to expect to find here? Squalo couldn't really say, but he could certainly venture a guess. "Stop the car," he growled. Squalo eyed the cold outside disdainfully for a moment. "Wait here."

"For how long?"

"Until I get back, moron." Squalo slammed the door and huffed away, hugging his black coat tightly. This city looked the same, he mused grimly, trudging through the snow with a slight malice for it. Squalo had been just a kid the last time he'd been here--dragged here by his father--but this place seemed frozen in time and frost.

Black boots crunched the snow and ice, stepping as gingerly as possible to not get this place's sick taint on himself. Squalo hated it here, hated how the snow made everything look lovely with a coat of pure white. There was trash buried underneath. Things were different here. There was no concept of family--not like in Italy--so much so that even Xanxus' lip would curl at it. Things were foreign, strange, and incredibly dangerous to brats who didn't know how to look past the pristine snow.

The streets here didn't make much sense, but Squalo wasn't traveling by them; he was following the scent of blood and the sound of sirens. Seemed like a good place to start this insane hunt. He rounded a corner, a mob of people and police daring to block his path with their backs. The scent of blood was so overpowering now that it didn't take a shark to smell it. He had arrived.

Slowly, Squalo weaved his way through the housewives gasping, the men shaking their heads, and a few children trying to sneak a peek. The swordsman didn't know much in the way of Russian, but there were words he recognized: Blood, massacre, dead. Squalo had a morbid vocabulary from his last time visiting here.

He'd made it up to the police line as far as he could without one of the twitchy cops freaking out and blowing off some suspicious foreigner's head. They all looked skittish--most of them probably on the take, worried where the next envelope was going to come from if all these mobsters were dead. Or it could be the mere sight of the bar--what was left of it--covered in the remnants of Rain.

All but one window had been broken, scraps of flesh hanging off some shattered panes. _When they got too close with a knife or broken pool stick, he kicked them, sending them flying._ Familiar gashes decorated the woodwork liberally, and the snow had a pinkish tint about it. _The men had laughed at the sword; they had guns, what could this kid possibly do? Who did he think he was?_ Squalo could see it, what had happened here. There were molars and incisors on the front steps--someone had gotten stomped--and the door had been kicked in. _They'd been surprised; no one came into the lions den._ That damn brat had probably done it all with a smile, too, that was the scariest part. _Popping heads and arms off like dandelions; he could do that, if he flicked his wrist the right way._ There were sheets covering mounds of flesh--they weren't people anymore--stacked in a neat line on the icy sidewalk.

"Tranquility my ass," Squalo muttered into his fur collar.

Squalo sighed irritably, puffs of cloud evaporating into the air. This was... This was bullshit. Swords deserved better than this, frankly. So he disappeared from the crowd, moving to the main street with an angry look across his face. There were many reasons Squalo had become a swordsman, and killing unskilled whelps was not one of them. That wasn't the rush he was looking for, nor did his blade deserve such treatment. Yamamoto was slipping. Squalo scowled as it suddenly dawned on him: He wasn't just an errand boy for Sawada. That twerp had known that Squalo was perhaps the only person left that could bring that brat back from here.

People were avoiding Squalo on the street, crossing to the other side as he stomped towards them. He was on a direct course for the place he knew that brat would be--sulking, in his own way, probably--and the snow crunched loudly beneath Squalo's heel. He was, after all, a bit familiar with this anger. He had felt it when he had seen Xanxus frozen the first time, when he's seen the beginnings of those scars. It picked at him, making the edges of Squalo's vision turn red. But something had held it at bay; his swordsman's instinct would not let it consume him. Squalo was simply too good-- _the very fucking best_ \--to let it do so. So he had borrowed some of Xanxus' bottomless anger, made it his own, grown out his hair and let the bastard throw all manners of glassware at his skull. But Squalo would never tarnish his blade with garbage, not ever. That's what guns were for, for fuck's sake.

Maybe, Squalo mused, he had given Yamamoto too much credit. That really pissed him off, more than the freezing wind and snow ever could; Squalo hated to be wrong, especially when it came to swords and those who carried them with an easy gait. Perhaps that Storm Harlot had tainted Yamamoto. He'd gotten under the brat's skin, that was for damned certain.

Well, whatever. Squalo was here to get the brat, not pontificate in the snow. That bottle of Lafite told him failure was not an option.

Squalo's boots stopped at the edge of the square, searching. He knew Yamamoto well enough to come to this place; like a magnet he'd too been drawn here the first time he'd come to Russia. Squalo's feet took him to a bench before the church, snow falling softly on black fur and leather. Gracelessly, Squalo plopped down on the far end of the bench, almost flinching as he hit the cold seat. Someone would pay for this crap-ass new year. "Looks like a fucking Candy Land castle."

"Haha, I thought so too," Yamamoto laughed behind his scarf. "It's really beautiful, I think I'm in love with it, haha. You here to get me?"

"Boss' boss' orders," Squalo grunted.

"Hmm."

In the silence, Squalo contemplated the differences between hitmen, assassins, murderers and psychopaths. There weren't too many, to be honest. "You've changed."

Yamamoto glanced over and smiled. "Have I really?"

A pause. "Maybe not."

"I'm kinda surprised Xanxus let you come here," the younger man confessed.

"Yeah, well, Sawada's incessant whining really gets to Boss these days."

"Haha!" Nothing else.

All of a sudden, it felt to Squalo like he had been standing in place all these years while he watched the brat sprint on ahead. His determination was turning into anger, perhaps, and while Squalo knew men who thrived on such a thing, that color didn't seem to match Yamamoto's eyes. All because that fucking tart had gone and almost drowned like the dog he was. And, like the brat Yamamoto was, he'd gone off to Russia, sword in hand.

Squalo wasn't certain he'd enjoy sparring with the other man anymore. Only time could tell.

"Don't look at me like that."

Yamamoto kept on smiling. "Like what?"

"Your smile's so rancid it makes me want to puke blood," Squalo snarled, rising slowly from the bench. "Come on; we're leaving this fucking wasteland."

He wasn't getting up. "It's not so bad here."

"I'll fucking leave you here--don't test me!"

"Haha, Squalo-san is so mean!"

Silver eyes narrowed. "Fine, stay here. When he wakes up, I'll be sure to tell him what a fuck-up you are."

"Haha, he already knows."

Silence.

"Then maybe I'll just pull the plug." A smirk. "One down, five to go."

Yamamoto smiled. "You wouldn't do that. Besides," he shrugged, turning back to the church. "I'd murder you."

Squalo wondered how long ago the brat had decided that.

"I'll be back in a few days, don't worry. I still have some things to clean up here."

"This isn't Italy, brat, things don't work the same way here."

"Haha, I don't really work the same way here either, so..."

Squalo was ready to have a fucking _fit_. He would take the Lafite over this bullshit. "Fine, stay here, rot like the miserable fuck you are." He started to walk away.

"Thank you for coming." Yamamoto looked over his shoulder, eyes the sincerest Squalo had seen them so far. That smile was gone though. "I promise you I'll be back." The younger man averted his gaze, nose buried in his scarf. "Just give me some more time."

A snort. That was as good as Squalo was going to get. "If you're not back in three days, Lussuria'll be up here to grab your frozen carcass and have his way with it."

"Haha, Squalo-san, you really are mean!"

"Fuck you," he muttered, and turned on his heel. The brat would never come back from this place, not really, not ever. It was too late, and he could go fuck himself for all Squalo cared.

What a waste.  



End file.
